Annensky not because it’s light with her. "I repeat the name of one star..."

The star as the personification of hope and faith in Eternal values. Today we can only guess whether the feelings of the hero of Annensky’s poem are directed at a specific representative of the fair sex or whether we are talking about unearthly love, directed to higher spheres. One way or another, this poem did not leave indifferent even such masters as Vertinsky, Vysotsky, Grebenshchikov and many others.

Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky was amazing poet. Like Tyutchev, he for a long time as if he was ashamed of his poetic gift, did not consider himself a professional poet and wrote poems for himself, for friends, for acquaintances. And as the poet himself recalled, “that the girls I knew copied my poems and even (how could one not become a feminist!) learned this nonsense by heart...”

The first and only collection of his lifetime was published when its author was already approaching fifty. But even here he chose to hide under the meaningful pseudonym “Nick.” That". Only at the very Last year In his life, Annensky began to take some steps to get the place that rightfully belonged to him on the then poetic Olympus, but he did not have time.

Already slightly alien to the 19th century, he never managed to become his own in the 20th century. He was not fashionable, he was not recognized during his lifetime - perhaps also because he was extremely sincere and always and in everything remained true to himself. He did nothing for show, he did not “promote” himself in the spirit of the new times - and therefore he kept himself apart, as it were, among his contemporaries-poets.

“Among the Worlds” - one of his most striking poems - is known today to the general public as a romance. It was performed by Alla Bayanova, Vladimir Vysotsky, Valery Obodzinsky, Boris Grebenshchikov, Oleg Pogudin, Zara Dolukhanova, Georgy Vinogradov, Alexander Vertinsky - each of these performers brought new colors to Annensky’s poems, found in these poems something of their own, something intimate , deeply personal.

Among the worlds, in the twinkling of the luminaries
I repeat the name of one star.
Not because I would love her,
But because I feel dark with others.

And if doubt is hard for me,
I'm the only one looking for an answer from her,
Not because it makes it light,
But because it doesn’t require light.

Listen to how these amazing lines sound as performed by Boris Grebenshchikov.

Love is an eternal theme. “Nocturne” by Robert Rozhdestvensky touches people living in the 21st century.

Annensky Innokenty

Among the worlds

Among the worlds, in the twinkling of the luminaries
I repeat the name of One Star...
Not because I loved her,
But because I languish with others.

And if doubt is hard for me,
I am looking to Her alone for an answer,
Not because it’s light from Her,
But because with Her there is no need for light.

I would love winter
Yes, the burden is heavy...
I even smell smoke from it
Don't go into the clouds.

This cut lines
This heavy flight
This beggar blue
And tear-stained ice!

But I love the weak
From transcendental negations -
It's sparkling white,
That lilac snow...

And especially the thawed one,
When, having opened the heights,
He lies down tired
On a sliding cliff,

Like herds in the fog
Immaculate dreams -
On the painful edge
Burnt offerings of spring. 1909

Spring romance
The river does not yet reign,
But she is already drowning the blue ice;
The clouds haven't melted yet,
But the snow cup will be filled with sunshine.

Through the closed door
You're disturbing my heart...
You don't love yet, but believe:
You can't help but love...

Averintsev. From spiritual poems
***
With the irresistible edge of a sword,
Honed for last battle,
Let there be a short word of prayer
And a clear sign - a quiet candle.

Let your eyes be directed towards her
In that near, strict hour of retribution,
When the constellations fade in the sky
And the light will leave the sun and moon.

Akhmatova Anna. Willow.
And a decrepit bunch of trees
Pushkin

And I grew up in patterned silence,
In a cool nursery of the young century.
And he wasn't nice to me human voice,
And the voice of the wind was clear to me.
I loved burdocks and nettles,
But most of all the silver willow.
And, grateful, she lived
With me all my life, weeping branches
Insomnia was covered with dreams.
And - strange! - I survived it.
There's a stump sticking out there, with other people's voices
The other willows are saying something
Under ours, under those skies.
And I am silent... As if my brother had died.

***
I learned to live simply and wisely,
Look at the sky and pray to God,
And wander for a long time before evening,
To tire out unnecessary anxiety.

When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
And the bunch of yellow-red rowan will fade,
I write funny poems
About life that is perishable, perishable and beautiful.

I'm coming back. Licks my palm
Fluffy cat, purrs sweetly,
And the fire burns bright
On the turret of the lake sawmill.

Only occasionally the silence cuts through
The cry of a stork flying onto the roof.
And if you knock on my door,
I don't think I'll even hear it.

Anna Akhmatova

Just think, it’s also work, -
This is a carefree life:
Listen to something from the music
And pass it off as your own joke.

And someone's cheerful scherzo
By putting it in some lines,
Swear that poor heart
So it groans among the shining fields.

And then listen in the forest,
At the pines, silent in appearance,
While the smokescreen
There is fog everywhere.

I take left and right
And even without guilt,
Life is a little crafty
And that's all - in the silence of the night.

Akhmatova Anna

Like a white stone in the depths of a well,
One memory lies within me,
I cannot and do not want to fight:
It is torment and it is suffering.

It seems to me that whoever looks closely
He will see him in my eyes immediately.
It will become sadder and more thoughtful
Listening to the sorrowful story.

I know what the gods transformed
People into objects without killing consciousness,
So that wonderful sorrows may live forever.
You have been turned into my memory.

Akhmadulina Bella
MEMORY

At the hour when autumn is generous with rain
and fever strikes the aspen,
look and your childhood shines behind you
the meek moon that fell into the well.

It seems completely intact and clear
the life that was once mine.
The fragile pattern of a dear face
time wore away like a coin.

Mine is only a staring light for memory,
the gift of possessing something that does not exist.

Evgeny Baratynsky
* * *
Songs heal a sick spirit.
Harmony's mysterious power
Heaviness will atone for error
And tame the rebellious passion.
The singer's soul, poured out in agreement,
Resolved from all her sorrows;
And the purity of holy poetry
And the world will be given to its partaker.<1834>

Wisdom of the Most High Creator

Wisdom of the Most High Creator
It is not for us to examine and measure:
One must believe in humility of heart
And wait patiently for the end.

Alexander Blok
GAMAYUN, BIRD OF THING
(painting by V. Vasnetsov)

On the surface of endless waters,
Sunset in purple,
She speaks and sings
Unable to lift the troubled ones with wings...
The yoke of the evil Tatars is broadcast,
Broadcasts a series of bloody executions,
And coward, and hunger, and fire,
The strength of the villains, the death of the right...
Embraced by eternal horror,
The beautiful face burns with love,
But things ring true
Mouths clotted with blood!..

* * *
Worlds are flying. The years fly by. Empty
The universe looks at us with dark eyes.
And you, soul, tired, deaf,
You keep repeating about happiness - how many times?

What is happiness? Evening coolness
In a darkening garden, in the wilderness?
Or dark, vicious pleasures
Wine, passions, destruction of the soul?

What is happiness? A short moment and cramped,
Oblivion, sleep and rest from worries...
You will wake up - mad again, unknown
And a heart-grabbing flight...

He sighed and looked - the danger had passed...
But at this very moment - another push!
Launched somewhere, haphazardly,
The top is flying, buzzing, hurrying!

And clinging to the sliding, sharp edge,
And always listening to the buzzing ringing, -
Are we going crazy in the change of motley
Invented reasons, spaces, times...

When is the end? An annoying sound
He will not have the strength to listen without rest...
How scary everything is! How wild! - Give me a hand,
Comrade, friend! Let's forget ourselves again. July 2, 1912

* * *
The wind brought from afar
Songs of spring hint,
Somewhere light and deep
A piece of sky opened up.

In this bottomless azure,
In the twilight of near spring
The winter storms cried
Starry dreams were flying.

Shy, dark and deep
My strings were crying.
The wind brought from afar
Your sonorous songs.
January 29, 1901

* * *
About valor, about exploits, about glory
I forgot on the sorrowful land,
When your face is in a simple frame
It was shining on the table in front of me.

But the hour came, and you left home.
I threw the treasured ring into the night.
You gave your destiny to someone else
And I forgot the beautiful face.

The days flew by, spinning like a damned swarm.
Wine and passion tormented my life...
And I remembered you in front of the lectern,
And he called you like his youth...

I called you, but you didn't look back,
I shed tears, but you did not condescend;
You sadly wrapped yourself in a blue cloak,
On a damp night you left the house.

I don’t know where my pride has a refuge
You, my dear, you, my gentle one, have found...
I sleep soundly, I dream of your blue cloak,
In which you left on a damp night...

Don't dream about tenderness, about fame,
Everything is over, youth is gone!
Your face in its simple frame
I cleared the table with my own hand. December 30, 1908

Joseph Brodsky
****
My candle, casting a dim light,
in yours dark world will illuminate the off-road.
And my shadow, blocking the light,
there, behind his back, he goes into the kingdom of God.

And wherever your path lies: in the forests, between the clouds
- living fire will call you everywhere.
The further you go, the further the beam,
the further your ray and shadow will penetrate!

Even if it’s far away, even if it’s not visible,
let him change - in spite of the verses signs -
but you will always be illuminated
albeit weak, but unique light.

Let the flame go out! May the dream of death
prefers fire to desolation.
But new world yours will be shocked
a face in the darkness and a radiant shadow.
1965

From "Lithuanian Divertissement"
Dominikanaj *

Pull off the road halfway
blind alley and entering
to the church, empty at this time,
sit on the bench and, after a while,

into the ear of God,
closed to the noise of the day,
whisper just four syllables:
- I'm sorry.
______ 1971
ћ Dominicans (lit.) - church in Vilnius.

Ivan Bunin
* * *
In the empty, see-through hall of the garden
I walk, rustling dry leaves:
What a strange joy
Trample the past underfoot!

What sweetness is all that before
Valued so little, remember!
What pain and sadness - in hope
Another spring to know!

Ivan BUNIN
For everything, Lord, I thank you!

For everything, Lord, I thank you!
You, after a day of anxiety and sadness,
Grant me the evening dawn,
The spaciousness of the fields and the gentleness of the blue distance.
I am alone now - as always.
But then the sunset spread its magnificent flame,
And the Evening Star melts in it
Trembling through and through, like a semi-precious stone.
And I am happy with my sad fate,
And there is sweet joy in consciousness,
That I am alone in silent contemplation,
That I am a stranger to everyone and say - with You

*Light*

Neither emptiness nor darkness is given to us:
There is light everywhere, eternal and faceless...
It's midnight. Darkness. The silence of the basilica
Take a closer look: it’s not completely dark there,
In the bottomless, black vault above you,
There's a narrow window on the wall,
Distant, barely visible, blind,
Shimmering with mystery into the temple
From night to night for eleven centuries...
And around you? Do you feel these
Crosses on slippery stone floors,
The coffins of the saints, buried under cover,
And the terrible silence of those places,
Filled with an indescribable miracle,
Where is the black altar cross
He raised his heavy arms,
Where is the sacrament of the filial crucifixion
Is God the Father Himself invisibly guarding?
There is some light that the darkness cannot crush.
<1927>

Why and what to talk about?
With all my soul, with love, with dreams,
Try to open my whole heart -
And what? - in just words!

And at least in human words
It wasn't all that clichéd!
You won’t find meaning in them,
Their meaning has been forgotten!

And who should I tell?
With even a sincere desire
No one will be able to understand
All the power of someone else's suffering!

Baratashvili Nikoloz
Heavenly color, Blue colour

The color of heaven, the color blue,
I fell in love with it from an early age.
As a child it meant to me
The blue of others began.

And now that I have reached
I'm the top my days,
As a sacrifice to other flowers
I won't give away the blue one.

He is beautiful without embellishment.
This is the color of your favorite eyes.
This is your bottomless gaze,
Filled with blue.

This is the color of my dreams.
This is the paint of height.
In this blue solution
The earth's expanse is immersed.

It's an easy transition
Into the unknown from worries
And from crying relatives
At my funeral.

It's a thin blue
Frost over my stove.
This is blue winter smoke
Darkness over my name.
1841

Maximilian Voloshin
* * *
The east turned green through the diamond network.
Far away across the land, mysterious and strict,
Thousands of paths and roads are illuminated.
Oh, if only we could pass through the world on the same road!

See everything, understand everything, know everything, experience everything,
All forms, all colors can be absorbed by your eyes.
Walk across the entire earth with burning feet,
To perceive everything and embody it again.
1903 or 1904, Paris

Poem by Andrei Bloch - Church Twilight

Praise the Lord, for He is good, for mercy endures forever
His. Dan. (3:89)

Church twilight. Peaceful coolness
Silent altar.
The trembling light of an undying lamp
Now, as before.
There is no noise here, and the heart beats quieter
And it doesn't hurt.
Souls have cried out a lot of grief here
At the ancient plates.
Here people entrusted flour to God,
There's an eternal trail here
Unknown tears, unspeakable sadness
Forgotten years.
An ancient temple - protection from powerlessness,
Shelter for battles
Where the angel of God gives wings to mortals
For their prayers.

Vertinsky Alexander
In the blue and distant ocean

You are gentle today
You are pale today
Today you are paler than the moon...
Have you read the poems?
You counted your sins
You are just like a child and quiet.
Your purple abbot
I will be sincerely glad
And he will forgive sins at random...
Give up your thoughts
There's plenty of room in heaven.
You will fall asleep, and I will sing to you.
In the blue and distant ocean,
Somewhere near Tierra del Fuego,
Floating in the lilac fog
Dead gray ships.
They are led by blind captains,
Somewhere sunken a long time ago.
In the morning their silent caravans
They quietly sink to the bottom.
The ocean awaits them in its arms,
The waves greet them, ringing.
Their powerless curses are terrible
To the sun of the coming day...
1927, Poland, Krakow

I mentally enter your office M. Voloshin

I mentally enter your office,
Here are those who were and those who are no longer,
But whose chimera did not die for us.
And the heart, captured by them, beats.
Baudelaire's face, Flaubert's Norman mustache,
Skeptical France, holy satyr Verlaine,
Blacksmith Balzac, minters of Goncourt...
Their faces are tart and their figures are clear
They look from the walls and sleep in morocco books,
Their spirit, their thought, their rhythm, their cry...
I'm loyal to them, I'm loyal to them.

Maximilian Voloshin

I love the tired rustle
Old letters, distant words...
They have a smell, they have a charm
Dying flowers.
I love patterned handwriting -
It contains the rustle of dry herbs.
Quick letters familiar sketch
A sad verse whispers quietly.
Charm is so close to me
Their tired beauty...
This is the tree of Poznan
Flying flowers.
1904

M. Voloshin

Exiles, wanderers and poets -
Who longed to be, but could not become anything...
The birds have a nest, the beast has a dark ravine,
And the staff is the covenant of beggary for us.

The duty is not fulfilled, the vows are not kept,
The path has not been taken, and fate doomed us
To dreams of all paths, doubts of all roads...
The honey is spilled and the songs are not finished.

Oh, in the breakdowns of wills, find, know yourself
And, humbly loving the bitter shame,
Fall to the ground, look for water in the desert,

To go to other people's tents to ask for your bread,
To become like a wandering rhapsode -
To those who see, but are blinded by the light of day.

Maximilian Voloshin

Not so, Lord, mighty, incomprehensible
You are before my restless consciousness,
That on a starry day your bright seraphim
A huge ball lit up over the universe.

And a dead man with a flaming face
He commanded that your laws be observed,
Awaken everything with a life-giving ray,
Preserving your ardor for centuries, millions.

No, you are powerful and incomprehensible to me
Because I myself, powerless and instantaneous,
I carry it in my chest like a seraph,
Fire is stronger and brighter than the entire universe.

Meanwhile, I am the prey of vanity,
The plaything of her inconstancy, -
In me he is eternal, omnipresent, like you,
Knows neither time nor space.

Peter Vyazemsky

BE IN LOVE. PRAY. SING

Be in love. Pray. Sing. Holy purpose
The soul yearning in its exile,
The holy sacrament is an earthly expression,
Premonition and grief about something unearthly,
A dark legend about what was clear,
And the hope of what will happen again;
A soul attuned to harmony with the beautiful,
Three eternal strings: prayer, song, love!
Happy is he who is given to know your joy,
Who cups the cup of joy and the cup of bitter sorrow
Always blessed with love and prayer
And the inner songs were like a living harp!<1839>

P.A. Vyazemsky

Pray! Prayer gives wings
A soul chained to the earth.
And carves out the key of abundance
In a rock overgrown with thorns!
She is our protection from powerlessness,
She is a star in the cold darkness.

Pray when the stream is silent
The struggle of passions boils within you;
Pray when facing a powerful rock
You are unarmed and weak;
Pray when the welcoming eye
Fate will please you.

And on a clear day, and under a thunderstorm,
To meet happiness or misfortune.
And will it fly over you
The shadow of a cloud or the ray of a star -
Pray! holy prayer
Secret fruits are ripening within us.

*****
Oh my God, thank you
For what you gave to my eyes
You see the world - Your eternal temple,
And the night, and the waves, and the dawn...

Everywhere I feel, everywhere
You, Lord, in the silence of the night,
And in the most distant star,
And in the depths of my soul...

As long as I live, I pray to you,
I love you, I breathe you,
When I die, I will merge with You,
Like stars in the morning...

I want my life to be
Unceasing praise to you.
You are past midnight and dawn,
Thank you for life and death!

Friends
I drink to the health of the few,
Friends who are unwaveringly strict

I drink to health of distant people,
Distant but dear friends,
Friends like me are lonely
Among people alien to their hearts.

Tears are pouring into my cup of wine,
But their flow is sweet and pure,
Like with scarlet black roses
Weaved into my table wreath.

My cup for the health of the few
Few but true friends,
Friends who are unwaveringly strict
In the temptations of changing days.

For the health of those near and far
Distant, but dear to the heart,
And in memory of lonely friends,
Those who died silent in their graves.

"Under the blue sky there is a golden city..."
Henri Volokhonsky

Above the blue firmament there is a golden city
With transparent gates and a bright star.
And in the city there are gardens, all herbs and flowers,
Animals of unprecedented beauty walk there.

One, like a yellow fire-maned lion,
Another is an ox full of eyes,

And one star is burning in the blue sky.
She is yours, oh my angel, she is always yours.
He who loves is loved. He who is bright is holy.
Let the star lead you on the way to a wonderful garden.

A fire-maned lion will meet you there
And a blue ox full of eyes,
With them is the golden eagle of heaven,
Whose unforgettable gaze is so bright.

Adelaide Gertsyk

If I always wear white,
I look innocently straight into your eyes,
It’s not so that they talk to me,
Not to be loved.
- I consecrate the passage of time,
Let everything go as it goes.

If I sit by the window for a long time,
And your face glows like the dawn,
I’m not waiting, I’m not calling anyone,
And the blue window does not beckon,
And what did my soul burn about -
I don't know myself.

And I am cheerful when I
Then my gaiety is not like that,
I am not bright to people and not to people,
And I’ll leave, unsociable again -
Don't hide the grudge within yourself
And love is not for life.

Flowers lit up in the dark forest,
Something has now become clear in the silence,
Fate met someone secretly -
And another line has passed
Between me and people.

I knew for a long time that I was autumnal,
What brightens the heart when the garden is on fire,
And more and more recklessly, more and more forgotten
An autumn leaf flies off, burning.
Already autumn with its game of reds
My sadness has long been gilded,
I love flowers - burned flowers
And the melting of the mountains in blue captivity.
Blessed is the country crowned with death,
A consonant heart trembles like a thread.
Bottomless heights and foggy distances, -
How sweet it is not to know... how easy it is not to be...

Cherubina de Gabriac

With my royal dream
I wander alone throughout the universe,
With my contempt for perishable life,
With my bitter beauty.

Queen of the Phantom Throne
Fate put me...
Crowned by the proud arch of the forehead
My crown of red braids.

But they sleep in faded centuries
All those who would be loved
Like me, I’m tormented by sadness,
Like me, alone in my dreams.

And I will die in the steppes of a foreign land,
I will not break the vicious circle.
Why are you so gentle? Hands,
Is Cherubina's name so subtle?

Cherubina de Gabriac
***
In an unexpectedly told tale
Suddenly the distance flashed with roses.
But the heart at the first caress
It broke like fragile crystal.

And the poor heart's fragments
They became so prickly,
As if from a sharp needle,
From every sorrow

Dripping drops of blood,
And everything is remembered again...
People call it love...
What a funny love!

Flowers live in people's hearts;
I read secretly in their pages
About unmarked boundaries,
About unbloomed petals.

I know souls like lavender
I know mimosa girls.
I know how from tea roses
A garland is woven in the soul.

In the branches of a laurel bush
I see a slit of black wings
I know bowls of pure lilies
And their sinful lips.

I love in naive lungworts
The silent sorrow of dead fairies.
And the face of shameless orchids
I hate socialites.

Acacia white words
Given to the departed and forgotten.
And for me, on old slabs,
A tear-grass grows in the soul.

He who builds the tower will fall down,
The rapid years will be terrible,
And at the bottom of the world well
He will curse his madness.
The destroyer will be crushed,
Overturned by broken slabs,
And, abandoned by the all-seeing God,
He will cry out about his torment.
And the one who went into the night caves
Or to the backwaters of a quiet river
Meet a ferocious panther
Terrifying pupils.
You will not be saved from the bloody share,
What the firmament intended for the earthly.
But be silent, incomparable right -
Choose your own death.
Nikolay Gumilyov

...

There is God, there is peace; they live forever

Nikolay Gumilyov.

*Your temple, O Lord, is in heaven*

Your temple, O Lord, is in heaven,
But the earth is also Your shelter,
Linden trees bloom in the forests,
And the flowers sing on the linden trees.

As if Your good news is coming, it’s spring
He walks through the merry fields,
And in the spring on the wings of sleep
Angels are flying to us.

If, Lord, this is so,
If I sing righteously,
Give me, Lord, give me a sign
That I understood Your will.

Before the one who is now sad,
Appear like an invisible light,
And whatever she asks,
Give a dazzling answer.

Modernity

I closed the Iliad and sat by the window.
The last word trembled on his lips.
Something was shining brightly - a lantern or the moon,
And the shadow of the sentry moved slowly.

I have so often cast a searching gaze
And I met so many answering glances
Odysseus in the darkness of the shipping offices,
Agamemnon between tavern markers.

So, in distant Siberia, where the blizzard is crying,
Freeze in silver ice mastodons,
Their dull melancholy shakes the snow there,
The horizons are lit with red blood - after all, theirs.

I'm sad from the book, I'm languishing from the moon,
Maybe I don’t need a hero at all...
Here they are walking along the alley, so strangely tender,
A schoolboy with a schoolgirl, like Daphnis and Chloe.

August 1911
On my way

Game time is over
Flowers don't bloom twice.
Shadow of a giant mountain
Fell on our way.

The area of ​​despondency and tears -
Rocks on both sides
And the bare cliff,
Where the dragon prostrates himself.

Its sharp ridge is steep,
His sigh is a fiery tornado.
People will call him
The gloomy name "Death".

Well, let's turn back
Turn back the ships
To experience again
The ancient poverty of the earth?

No, no way, no way!
So the time has come.
Better than blind Nothing
What a golden yesterday!

Let's take out the treasure sword,
Gift of benevolent naiads,
To finally find
Never-blooming garden.

1909
Nikolay Gumilyov

CAPTAINS (excerpt)

On the polar seas and on the southern ones,
Along the bends of green swells,
Between basalt rocks and pearl
The sails of the ships rustle.

The swift-winged ones are led by captains,
Discoverers of new lands,
For those who are not afraid of hurricanes,
Who has experienced maelstroms and shoals.

Whose is not the dust of lost charters -
The chest is soaked with the salt of the sea,
Who is the needle on the torn map
Marks his daring path

And, having ascended the trembling bridge,
Remembers the abandoned port,
Shaking off the strokes of the cane
Pieces of foam from high boots,

Or, having discovered a riot on board,
A pistol bursts from his belt,
So that gold falls from the lace,
From pinkish Brabant cuffs.<1912>

There is God, there is peace; they live forever...

There is God, there is peace; they live forever
And people's lives are instantaneous and miserable,
But a person contains everything within himself,
Who loves the world and believes in God.

Word
On that day, when over the new world
God bowed His face, then
The sun was stopped by the Word,
In short, they destroyed cities.
And the eagle did not flap its wings,
The stars huddled in horror towards the moon,
If, like a pink flame,
The word floated above.
And for the low life there were numbers,
Like livestock,
Because all shades of meaning
Smart number conveys.
Patriarch gray-haired, under his arm
Conquered both good and evil,
Not daring to turn to sound,
I drew a number in the sand with a cane.
But we forgot that it is shining
Only the Word among earthly anxieties,
And in the Gospel of John
It is said that the Word is God.
We set a limit for him
The meager limits of nature,
And like bees in a dead hive,
Dead words smell bad.
1920

Ekaterina Gorbovskaya

*** ..
Come to the market without a penny of money,
Smell the roses and touch the broom,
And try everything that is allowed -
Cabbage, cottage cheese, honey and grapes,
To say that honey is spoiled, and cottage cheese is
Not so good as it is expensive,
And with a sense of my own rightful rightness
Smell all the flowers again.

***
I thought that the main thing
in pursuit of destiny -
Painting and jewelry
work on yourself:

Above all the shortcomings
which are visible
Over bad inclinations,
which are given

Magic patches
iron wall
There must be dignity
raised by me.

I once thought so
according to his youth.
It seemed that this was the main thing
but it turned out - no.

Of all the well wishers
no one explained
What's important is that someone
this is how I loved you:

With all the shortcomings,
tears and fits,
Scandals and shifts,
and a penchant for lying,

Considering them depths,
considering them mysteries,
Unknown secrets
your big soul.

* * *
Live and sing. There's no need to rush.
Natural fine mechanism:
any evil is its own poison
poisons your body.

* * *
Poetry - there is nothing more useless
in the whirlwind of everyday life,
but everything that is not filled with poetry,
disappears without a trace after death.

* * *
On everyday sudden exams,
where the decisions are abrupt and hasty,
very often reasonable and righteous
fools and sinners are put to shame.

* * *
Dead ends are useful for creativity:
pain and powerlessness burn
against reason and fear
the soul is forced to take a leap.

* * *
Only in a frozen quagmire up to the neck,
on the fragility of the shaky bottom,
in everyday life of disasters, anxieties and deprivations
the feeling of happiness is given in full.

* * *
In all matters where the mind is successful
is in a hurry to celebrate the victory,
he catches sad and grinning
the look of a hidden soul.

* * *
From years rich in hopes,
against the wind and wave
we sail on frigates,
and we swim on a log.

* * *
Happiness is that the mind and body are mobile,
that success rushes after adversity,
happiness is awareness of the limit,
given to us by age and nature.

* * *
All the best that we do
spring creative time,
is not done through hard work,
but with a light sparkling game.

Gleb Gorbovsky

“Turn into a fine rain...”

Turn into a fine rain
charge for many days...
And the city is thick-skinned
fall quietly between the fires.
Or touch the mane of the forest,
the leaves barely moved.
or heavenly tenderness
stroke the sleepy fields.
Merge with the nameless river,
kiss people...
Get tired.
And then into a foggy dawn
thin
and stop. 1967

“My rhymes are ordinary...”

My rhymes are ordinary
like a loader's burden.
My rhythms are typical
because they look alike
to the breath of the sea,
where are the ships located?
to embellishment and grief,
to forests and peoples.

My lines are flowing
my letters are literal;
songs, -
as if on purpose,
deliberately normal.
Because the elements -
the same simple song.
Because the poems are me
I don’t write, I give birth. 1964

By autumn

Snow and yellow leaves.
In the sky there is a cry of branches.
I was walking along the road,
on the way to her...
Slow as a tree
quiet, like an old man.
Two steps away, confused
a sparrow appeared.
Mixed with leaves
snow, and everything is denser.
...I walked as if to a pier,
by my autumn. 1967

Evgeniy Yevtushenko
* * *
White snows are falling
like sliding on a thread...
To live and live in the world,
but probably not.

Someone's souls without a trace,
dissolving into the distance
like white snow,
go to heaven from earth.

It's snowing big,
painfully bright
both mine and others'
covering my tracks.
1965

Sergey Yesenin

* * *
The golden grove dissuaded
Birch, cheerful language,
And the cranes, sadly flying,
They don’t regret anyone anymore.

Whom should I feel sorry for? After all, everyone in the world is a wanderer -
He will pass, come in and leave the house again.
The hemp plant dreams of all those who have passed away
With a wide moon over the blue pond.

I stand alone among the naked plain,
And the wind carries the cranes into the distance,
I'm full of thoughts about my cheerful youth,
But I don’t regret anything about the past.

I don't feel sorry for the years wasted in vain,
I don’t feel sorry for the soul of the lilac blossom.
There is a fire of red rowan burning in the garden,
But he can't warm anyone.

Rowan berry brushes will not get burned,
The yellowness will not make the grass disappear,
Like a tree silently shedding its leaves,
So I drop sad words.

And if time, scattered by the wind,
He'll shovel them all into one unnecessary lump...
Say this... that the grove is golden
Dissuaded me with sweet language.1924

I do not regret, do not call, do not cry,
Everything will pass like smoke from white apple trees.
Withered in gold,
I won't be young anymore.

Now you won't fight so much,
A heart touched by a chill,
And the country of birch chintz
It won't tempt you to wander around barefoot.

The wandering spirit! you are less and less often
You stir up the flame of your lips
Oh my lost freshness,
A riot of eyes and a flood of feelings.

I have now become more stingy in my desires,
My life? or did I dream about you?
As if I were a booming early spring
He rode on a pink horse.

All of us, all of us in this world are perishable,
Copper quietly pours from the maple leaves...
May you be blessed forever,
What has come to flourish and die.

Nikolay Zabolotsky

ABOUT THE BEAUTY OF HUMAN FACES

There are faces like lush portals,
Where everywhere the great is seen in the small.
There are faces - like miserable shacks,
Where the liver is cooked and the rennet is soaked.
Other cold, dead faces
Closed with bars, like a dungeon.
Others are like towers in which for a long time
No one lives and looks out the window.
But I once knew a small hut,
She was unprepossessing, not rich,
But from the window she looks at me
The breath of a spring day flowed.
Truly the world is both great and wonderful!
There are faces - similarities to jubilant songs.
From these notes, like the sun, shining
A song of heavenly heights has been composed.

Nikolay Zabolotsky

I saw a juniper bush in a dream.
I heard a metallic crunch in the distance.
I heard the ringing of amethyst berries.
And in my sleep, in silence, I liked him.
In my sleep I smelled a slight smell of resin.
Bend back these low trunks,
I noticed in the darkness of the tree branches
A little living likeness of your smile.
Juniper bush, juniper bush,
The cooling babble of changeable lips,
A light babble, barely reminiscent of resin,
Pierced me with a deadly needle!
In the golden skies outside my window
The clouds float by one after another.
My garden, which has flown around, is lifeless and empty...
May God forgive you, juniper bush!

Night garden

O garden of the night, mysterious organ,
A forest of long pipes, a haven of cellos!
O night garden, sad caravan
Silent oaks and motionless firs!
He tossed and made noise all day.
The oak was a battle, and the poplar was a shock.
A hundred thousand leaves are like a hundred thousand bodies,
Intertwined in the autumn air.

Iron August in long boots
He stood in the distance with a large plate of game.
And shots thundered in the meadows,
And bird bodies flashed in the air.
And the garden fell silent, and the moon suddenly came out,
Dozens of long shadows lay below,
And the crowds of linden trees raised their hands,
Hiding birds under clumps of plants.
Oh garden of the night, oh poor garden of the night,
O creatures who have fallen asleep for a long time!
O flashed above your head
Instant Star Shard Flame!
1936

Evening on the Oka

In the charm of the Russian landscape
There is genuine joy, but it
Not open to everyone and even
Not every artist can see it.
Burdened with work in the morning,
The labor of forests, the cares of fields,
Nature looks as if with reluctance
On us, uncharmed people.
And only when behind the dark thicket of the forest
The evening ray will sparkle mysteriously,
Everyday life is a thick veil
Her beauty will fall off instantly.
The forests submerged in the water will sigh,
And, as if through transparent glass,
The entire chest of the river will touch the sky
And it will burn moist and bright.
From the white towers of the cloud world
The fire will come down, and in that gentle fire,
As if under the hands of a jeweler,
Through shadows will fall in the depths.
And the clearer the details become
Objects located around
The more vast the distances become
River meadows, backwaters and bends.
The whole world is burning, transparent and spiritual,
Now he's really good
And you, rejoicing, many wonders
You can recognize his living features.
1957

Who responded to me in the thicket of the forest?
Is the old oak whispering with the pine tree,
Or a rowan tree creaked in the distance,
Or the goldfinch ocarina began to sing,
Or a robin little friend,
Did she suddenly answer me at sunset?
Are you the one who is in the spring again?
I remembered our past years,
Our worries and our troubles,
Our wanderings in a distant land,--
You, who scorched my soul?
Who responded to me in the thicket of the forest?
Morning and evening, in cold and heat,
I always hear an indistinct echo,
Like the breath of immense love,
For the sake of which my reverent verse
I was rushing to you from my palms...
1957

Nikolay Zabolotsky
PORTRAIT

Love painting, poets!
Only she, the only one, is given
Souls of changeable signs
Transfer to canvas.

Do you remember how, from the darkness of the past,
Barely wrapped in satin,
From Rokotov's portrait again
Was Struyskaya looking at us?

Her eyes are like two fogs,
Half smile, half cry,
Her eyes are like two deceptions,
Failures covered in darkness.

A combination of two mysteries
Half-delight, half-fear,
A fit of mad tenderness,
Anticipation of mortal pain.

When darkness comes
And the storm is approaching
From the bottom of my soul they flicker
Her beautiful eyes.

In this birch grove.

In this birch grove,
Far from suffering and troubles,
Where pink falters
Unblinking morning light
Where is the transparent avalanche
Leaves are pouring from high branches,--
Sing me, oriole, a desert song,
The song of my life.

One day a beauty told me
About what it is to love:
“To love is to fall, and in this fall
Take another one with you.”

I did not know and do not know such love
And I can’t know, I don’t want to.
A different dream of Love in your heart
I am gilded with the light of hope.

To love is to rise to heights yourself
A thorny narrow path.
To love is to knock on the doors of heaven,
Leading another.

Georgy Ivanov.
The melody becomes a flower

The melody becomes a flower
It blossoms and crumbles,
It is made by wind and sand,
A spring moth flying towards the fire,
Willow branches fall into the water...

A thousand instant years pass
And the melody is reincarnated
In the heavy gaze, in the radiance of the epaulette,
In leggings, in mentik, in “Your Honor”
In the cornet guard - oh, why not?..

Fog... Taman... The desert listens to God.
- How far is it until tomorrow!..

And Lermontov goes out onto the road alone,
Ringing silver spurs.

* * *
How colorless everything is, how tasteless everything is,
Dead inside, funny outside
How inexpressibly sad I am,
I'm so sickeningly bored...

Yawning myself from this topic,
I change it on the fly.

Look how lush the chrysanthemums are
In the garden burned in autumn -
It's like Lermontov's Demon
Sad in orange hell
It’s as if Vrubel remembers
Scraps of a creative dream
And it declines royally
A wave of purple music...

* * *
The moon rose above the pink sea
A bottle of wine was green in the ice

And the loving couples twirled languidly
To the plaintive rumble of a ukulele.

Listen. Oh how long ago it was,
The same sea and the same wine.

It seems to me that the music is the same
Listen, listen, it even seems to me.

No, you are mistaken, dear friend.
We lived on a different planet then

And too tired and too old
For this waltz and this guitar.
1925

* * *
Sadness sighs with an aeolian harp
And wax stars light candles
And the distant sunset is like a Persian shawl,
Which envelops tender shoulders.

Why do nightingales whistle incessantly?
Why do sunsets bloom and fade?
Why are your precious shoulders
How soft the pearls are and how sloping the sky is!

*You, my days...* Nikolai Klyuev

You, my days, - white pigeons,
And the clocks are belated finches.
Are you about to fly away?
Are you leaving my garden deserted?

Al the red cherries fell down,
Have my grapes withered?
Ali thoughts are seasoned, eternal,
Are you gnawed by a windbreak like an animal?

Has the well of your heart dried up?
Has the fence of faith been destroyed?
Ali myself, a proven gardener,
Couldn't I feed you with prayer?

Coo, high doves,
And I ask, brothers - valley finches,
What will happen to my cherries without you?! -
The crows will get it for food.

After the departure of the last dove
Knock on the leaky gate
Woodcutter with axes and saws,
In a zip coat, in bast shoes with frills.

Hour after hour, like valley finches,
They fly off into deep space.
And, like a nanny's cricket song,
The dove's wing rang.

Lermontov, Mikhail.
* * *
I go out alone on the road;
Through the fog the flinty path shines;
The night is quiet. The desert listens to God,
And star speaks to star.

It’s solemn and wonderful in heaven!
The earth sleeps in a blue glow...
Why is it so painful and so difficult for me?
Am I waiting for what? Do I regret anything?

I don't expect anything from life,
And I don’t regret the past at all;
I'm looking for freedom and peace!
I would like to forget myself and fall asleep!

But not that cold sleep of the grave...
I would like to sleep like this forever,
So that they doze in your chest life force,
So that, breathing, your chest rises quietly;

So that all night, all day my hearing is cherished,
A sweet voice sang to me about love,
Above me so that, forever green,
The dark oak bowed and made noise.

Mikhail Lermontov

* * *
When the yellowing field is agitated,
And the fresh forest rustles with the sound of the breeze,
And the raspberry plum is hiding in the garden
Under the sweet shade of the green leaf;

When sprinkled with fragrant dew,
On a ruddy evening or morning at the golden hour,
From under a bush I get a silver lily of the valley
Nods his head affably;

When the icy spring plays along the ravine
And, plunging my thoughts into some kind of vague dream,
Babbles a mysterious saga to me
About the peaceful land from which he rushes, -

Then the anxiety of my soul is humbled,
Then the wrinkles on the forehead disperse, -
And I can comprehend happiness on earth,
And in the sky I see God.1837

*Prayer* Lermontov

In a difficult moment of life
Is there sadness in the heart:
One wonderful prayer
I repeat it by heart.

There is a power of grace
In the consonance of living words,
And an incomprehensible one breathes,
Holy beauty in them.

Like a burden will roll off your soul,
Doubt is far away -
And I believe and cry,
And so easy, easy...

Prayer
Don't blame me, Omnipotent,
And don’t punish me, I pray,
Because the darkness of the earth is grave
With her passions I love;

For something that rarely enters the soul
A stream of Your living speeches,
For wandering in error
My mind is far from You;

Because lava is inspiration
It bubbles on my chest;
For the wild excitement
The glass of my eyes is darkening;

Because the earthly world is small for me,
I'm afraid to get close to you,
And often the sound of sinful songs
I, God, do not pray to You.
But extinguish this wonderful flame,
The burning fire
Turn my heart to stone
Stop your hungry gaze;

From a terrible thirst for song
Let me, Creator, free myself,
Then on the narrow path of salvation
I will turn to You again.
1829

Pilgrim's Prayer
I, Mother of God, now with prayer
Before Your image, bright radiance,
Not about salvation, not before battle,
Not with gratitude or repentance,
I don’t pray for my deserted soul,
For the soul of a wanderer in a rootless world;
But I want to hand over an innocent maiden
Warm Intercessor of the cold world.
Surround a worthy soul with happiness;
Give her companions full of attention,
Bright youth, calm old age,
Peace of hope to a kind heart.
Is the time approaching the farewell hour?
Whether on a noisy morning, or on a silent night -
You perceive, let's go to the sad bed
Best angel beautiful soul.
1837

Yuri Levitansky

Everyone chooses for themselves
A woman, religion, a road.
To serve the devil or the prophet -
Everyone chooses for themselves.

Everyone chooses for themselves
Word for love or prayer.
A sword for a duel, a sword for battle
Everyone chooses for themselves.

Everyone chooses for themselves
Shield and armor, staff and salaries.
The measure of the final reckoning
Everyone chooses for themselves.

Everyone chooses for themselves.
I also choose as best I can.
I have no complaints against anyone.
Everyone chooses for themselves.

* * *
All you need to do is take a closer look, - my God,
All that matters is to take a closer look -
And you won’t leave, and there’s nowhere to go
From these eyes, from their sudden depth.

I feel sorry for the line that was not recognized until now.
And yet the line - it will be read over time,
And it will be re-read many times and will count towards her,
And everything that happened to her will remain with her.

But the eyes - they go away forever,
Like some world that has never been discovered,
Like a certain Rome that was never discovered,
And you can’t open it anymore, and that’s the whole problem.

But I feel a little sorry for you too, I feel sorry for you too,
Because they lived so vainly, were in such a hurry,
That you don’t know what you’ve deprived yourself of,
And you won’t know, and that’s the whole sadness.

However, I am not your judge. I lived like everyone else.
At first, the word had complete control over me.
And it happened after, after it happened,
And that’s the whole point, and that’s the whole sadness.

That’s why I’m bitter about my fate today -
As long as he fancied himself a judge, he aimed to be a prophet,
What treasures under your feet did you not notice?
What constellations in the sky did you not see?
Soviet poetry. In 2 volumes.

The day is waning faster and faster
rolls down in a straight line.
Lilac branch and Vrubel.
My purple light.

It's like the same palette
garden, and fence, and house.
Quiet, like a prayer,
willows over a quiet pond.

Only the sheets were burnt
in this slow fire.
Blue watercolor smoke.
Lilac branch in the window.

Lord, lilac branch,
still, don't rush
talking about aging
this lost wilderness,

this poor land
these ancient forests,
where, fading in the distance,
a strangled call rolls,
the sound of a pastoral pipe
silent in this area...
Vrubel and a branch of lilac.
My purple light.

It's like getting old
in fact, maybe everything
there is only repetition
the theme of his title.

And beyond the streaks of snow
suddenly a trace appears
blue foothills of Kazbek,
shadow of golden epaulettes,

and behind the wall of the wilderness,
like a drawing in an album,
the sail will appear in the fog,
in the same, still blue,

and an old topic
will take a different turn...
Lermontov. Cloud. Daemon.
Wings elastic flight.

And, like a ship at the pier
on the day of returning home,
rushes back to the beginning
my purple light.
1991

Mikhail Lozinsky
White Night

Distant spiers burn
Evening and bright cathedrals,
And hesitating and roaring in the radiance,
Descends to mirror channels
Night invisible in the air.

The sadness of the earth has been illuminated
Seas of enlightened spaces,
And to us, in our vague wanderings,
So joyful - with a tired heart,
To be exhausted by a tired dream...

A crazy night has fallen
Over the ash-soft Neva,
And the wings of solemn rostras,
And light masts are like shadows,
Like dreams reflected in dreams.

And everything that happened was just a dream.
We are like children again with you,
We are a bright, lost island
IN calm seas dreams,
We are an island on light waves.

Mirra Lokhvitskaya

my chord has three strings,
but the second one sounds the most painful,
the melancholy of the otherworldly side.
My chord has three strings.
they contain pink dreams of childhood,
in them is the sigh of a lost paradise.
my chord has three strings,
but the second one sounds the most painful.

Novella Matveeva
WIND
What a big wind
Attacked our island!
The roofs were blown off the houses,
Like milk - foam.

And if the nail is to the house
Drive with the sharp end,
Without a hammer, right away,
He will go into the wall himself.

The wind broke the willow,
I leveled the ridges in the garden -
As much as a radish root
He crawled out of the soil on his own.

And, rolling sideways
To the neighboring garden,
Grown into someone else's bed
And I grew up there again.

And the squall carried me out to sea
Ten two boats,
And woe to the fishermen,
Don't light your pipes.

And I need to light a cigarette,
Yes, light a match,
Like a glance on the fly
Stop the bird.

What a big wind!
Oh, what a whirlwind!
And you sit quietly
And you look tender.

And no force
You can't be touched
Neptune will soon leave
From your throne.

What a big wind
Attacked our island!
The roofs were blown off the houses,
Like milk - foam.

And if the nail is to the house
Drive with the sharp end,
Without a hammer, right away,
He will go into the wall himself.

Osip Mandelstam.

The sound is cautious and dull
The sound is cautious and dull
The fruit that fell from the tree
Among the incessant chant
Deep forest silence...
1908

* * *
Insomnia. Homer. Tight sails.
I read the list of ships halfway through:
This long brood, this crane train,
That once rose above Hellas.

Like a crane's wedge into foreign borders, -
On the heads of kings there is divine foam, -
Where are you sailing? Whenever Elena
What is Troy alone for you, Achaean men?

Both the sea and Homer - everything moves with love.
Who should I listen to? And now Homer is silent,
And the black sea, swirling, makes noise
And with a heavy roar he approaches the headboard. 1915

Osip Mandelstam
Unspeakable sadness
She opened two huge eyes,
Flower woke up vase
And she threw out her crystal.
The whole room is drunk
Exhaustion is a sweet medicine!
Such a small kingdom
So much was consumed by sleep.
A little red wine,
A little sunny May -
And, breaking a thin biscuit,
The thinnest fingers are white.
1909

I'm dead tired of life,
I don't accept anything from her
But I love my poor land,
Because I haven’t seen anyone else.

I was swinging in a distant garden
On a simple wooden swing,
And tall dark spruces
I remember in a foggy delirium.

x x x
1
What a cool thing in the crystal pool!
The Siena mountains intercede for us,
And crazy rocks and thorny cathedrals
Hanging in the air, where there is fur and silence.
2
From the hanging ladder of prophets and kings
The organ of the saint descends fortress of spirit,
Shepherd dogs have a cheerful bark and kind ferocity,
Shepherds' sheepskins and judges' staffs.
3
Here is the motionless earth, and with it
I drink the cold mountain air of Christianity,
Cool I believe and rested the psalmist,
Keys and rags of the apostolic churches.
4
Which line could convey
Crystal of high notes in the fortified ether,
And from the Christian mountains in astonished space,
Like the song of Palestine, grace descends.
1919
***
Your image, painful and unsteady,
I couldn't feel in the fog.
“Lord!”, I said by mistake,
Without even thinking about saying it.
God's name is like a big bird
It flew out of my chest...
There's a thick fog ahead,
And an empty cell behind...
1912.

A. S. Pushkin

It's a sad time! Ouch charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.

Boris Pasternak

IT IS SNOWING
It's snowing, it's snowing.
To the white stars in a snowstorm
Geranium flowers stretch
For the window frame.
It's snowing and everyone is in confusion,
Everything takes flight, -
Black staircase steps,
Crossroads turn.
It's snowing, it's snowing,
As if it weren't flakes falling,
And in a patched coat
The firmament descends to the ground.

As if looking like an eccentric,
From the top landing,
Sneaking around, playing hide and seek,
The sky is coming down from the attic.
Because life doesn't wait.
If you don’t look back, it’s Christmas time.
Only a short period,
Look, there's a new year there.
The snow is falling, thick and thick.
In step with him, in those feet,
At the same pace, with that laziness
Or at the same speed
Maybe time is passing?
Maybe year after year
Follow as the snow falls
Or like the words in a poem?
It's snowing, it's snowing,
It's snowing and everyone is in confusion:
White pedestrian
Surprised plants
Crossroads turn.
1956

*****
February. Get some ink and cry!
Write about February sobbingly,
While the rumbling slush
In spring it burns black.

Get the cab. For six hryvnia
Through the gospel, through the click of the wheels
Travel to where it's raining
Even noisier than ink and tears.

Where, like charred pears,
Thousands of rooks from the trees
They will fall into puddles and collapse
Dry sadness to the bottom of my eyes.

Underneath the thawed patches turn black
And the wind is torn with screams,
And the more random, the more true
Poems are composed out loud.

K. R. (Konstantin Romanov)
* * *
I opened the window - it became sad and unbearable -
I knelt down before him,
And the spring night smelled in my face
The fragrant breath of lilac.

And somewhere in the distance a nightingale sang wonderfully;
I listened to him with deep sadness
And with longing I remembered my homeland,
I remembered my distant homeland,

Where the native nightingale sings its native song
And, not knowing earthly sorrows,
It pours all night long
Over a fragrant branch of lilac. May 13, 1885

Nikolay Rubtsov
IT'S LIGHT IN MY CENTER

It’s light in my upper room.
Its from night star.
Mother will take the bucket,
Silently bring water...

My red flowers
Everything in the kindergarten withered.
Boat on the river bank
It will soon rot completely.

Slumbering on my wall
Willow lace shadow.
Tomorrow I have under her
It's going to be a busy day!

I will water the flowers
Think about your fate
I'll be there before the night star
Make your own boat...

Nikolay Rubtsov
STAR OF THE FIELDS

Star of the fields, in the icy darkness
Stopping, he looks into the wormwood.
The clock has already rung twelve,
And sleep enveloped my homeland...

Star of the fields! In moments of turmoil
I remembered how quiet it was behind the hill
She burns over the autumn gold,
It burns over the winter silver...

The star of the fields burns without fading,
For all the anxious inhabitants of the earth,
Touching with your welcoming ray
All the cities that rose in the distance.

But only here, in the icy darkness,
She rises brighter and fuller,
And I'm happy as long as I'm in this world
The star of my fields is burning, burning...

Hieromonk Roman.

My joy, the time of repentance is coming,
My joy, autumn is burning around me,
There is nothing permanent on earth
My joy, my only friend.

Yellow, red - everything is colorful,
The ditches are lined with gold, gold.
Right in the face of the unrequited spring
The wind threw up small pieces of leaves.

The trees without rights are sad,
In the vestments of the torn to pieces they await death.
Only golden Orthodox Crosses,
My joy, we are called to immortality.

My joy, this sinful vanity
He even throws sheets of paper onto the porch.
But they desired the unearthly peace
White Churches, Holy Crosses.

They are not attracted by counterfeit bills,
Doesn't attract the golden stream,
Do you need this lying gold,
To you who kiss eternal peace?!

The White Churches glow from afar,
Preaching the good news of another world,
The Sermons of Truth are still alive,
My joy, do not grieve for anything.

The White Churches are filled with meekness,
The light is sanctified by them to this day.
My joy, that you are spinning around in vain,
The White Churches are now a thousand years old.

You, dumb Spectators, have survived,
The storms have passed, the enemies have dispersed.
How much have we seen over the centuries?
White Churches, Fragments of Rus'?

White Churches float in Infinity,
Oh, Depositors of unearthly Purity!
Unconquered Citizens of Eternity,
White Tserivi, Holy Crosses.

The smells of decay do not concern you,
This October desperate feast.
White Churches - Strongholds of the Universe,
If you don't resist, the world will fall apart.

The ringing of a bell flies through the centuries,
Let us meet at the prayer hour in the Temple:
My joy, you and I didn’t notice;
Autumn is already on our doorstep.

September 1987

Igor Severyanin
CLASSIC ROSES

In my garden! How they seduced my gaze!
How I prayed for the spring frosts
Do not touch them with a cold hand!
Myatlev, 1843
In those times when dreams swarmed
In the hearts of people, transparent and clear,
How beautiful, how fresh the roses were
My love, and glory, and spring!
The summers have passed, and tears are flowing everywhere...
There is neither a country nor those who lived in the country...
How beautiful, how fresh the roses are today
Memories of the past day!
But as the days go by, the thunderstorms are already subsiding.

Music by A. Vertinsky, Shaporin Yu.A.
Words by I. Annensky

Among the worlds in the twinkling luminaries
I repeat the name of one star...
Not because I loved her,
But because I feel dark with others.

And if my heart is heavy,
I am looking to Her alone for an answer,

But because it doesn’t require light!

Our beloved Valery Agafonov

Annensky's poem is entitled "Among the Worlds", Vertinsky called his romance "My Star". The romance is also called by the first line: “Among the worlds in the twinkling of the stars.” In 1976, music for the poem was also written by the bard Alexander Sukhanov (under the title “My Star”).


SHAPORIN YURI (GEORGY) ALEXANDROVICH ( 1887-1966)-SOVIET COMPOSER.

⁣The vocal cycle “Elegies,” which included a romance called “Among the Worlds,” was created by composer Yuri Shaporin during the war years.

⁣The poem “Among the Worlds” by Innokenty Annensky, musical in its very essence, seems to have been created to become a romance. Composer Yuri Shaporin was far from the only and not even the first who set these poems by Annensky to music.

The incomparable Alexander Vertinsky - music author and performer

Much earlier, Alexander Vertinsky did this: the romance, which he called “My Star,” was widely known - first among the Russian emigration, and then in our country - and was performed with constant success by Vertinsky himself


OPTION

Among the worlds

Words by I. Annensky

Among the worlds, in the twinkling of the luminaries
I repeat the name of One Star...
Not because I loved her,
But because I languish with others.

And if doubt is hard for me,
I pray to Her alone for an answer,
Not because it’s light from Her,
But because with Her there is no need for light.

1901

I. F. Annensky wrote it in Tsarskoe Selo shortly before his death, in April 1909.

Performed by Valery Obodzinsky
INNOKENTY FEDOROVICH ANNENSKY(1855-1909) - Russian poet of the “Silver Age”

Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky was an amazing poet. Like Tyutchev, for a long time he seemed to be ashamed of his poetic gift; he did not consider himself a professional poet and wrote poems for himself, for friends, for acquaintances:

“I firmly adhered to the words of my brother Nikolai Fedorovich, which sank deeply into my soul:

“You can’t publish until you’re thirty,” and I was content with the fact that the girls I knew copied my poems and even (how could you not become a feminist!) learned this nonsense by heart…”

A poet of deep internal discord, a thinker condemned to the deafness of his contemporaries - he is tragic, like a victim historical fate. Belonging to two generations, the older one with age and everyday skills, and the younger one with spiritual sophistication, Annensky seemed to combine in himself the results of Russian culture, which at the beginning of the 20th century was saturated with the anxiety of contradictory torments and insatiable daydreaming.

Oleg Pogudin

That’s right: already a little alien to the 19th century, he never managed to become his own in the 20th century. He was not fashionable, he was not recognized during his lifetime - perhaps also because he was extremely sincere and always and in everything remained true to himself. He did nothing for show and therefore kept himself apart, as it were, among his poet contemporaries.

It was only later, after his death, that they began to call him “the last of the Tsarskoye Selo swans,” a brilliant representative of the Silver Age of Russian poetry.

Of course, Annensky’s poem “Among the Worlds” is known to the general public primarily as a romance.

Very beautiful performance by Anna Shirochenko!

Alla Bayanova, Vladimir Vysotsky, Valery Obodzinsky, Boris Grebenshchikov, Oleg Pogudin, the already mentioned Zara Dolukhanova, Georgy Vinogradov, Alexander Vertinsky, A. Sukhanov - each of these performers brought new colors to Annensky’s poems, found something of their own in these poems, something intimate, deeply personal.....

I didn’t insert a romance to Shaporin’s music, because... According to everyone, Vertinsky wrote much better and his music is mostly performed. If anyone is interested in how the above-mentioned singers sang, and there is also a performance by Vladimir Vysotsky and Nikolai Slichenko, you can find it on YouTube. The same applies to the bard Alexander Sukhanov, who wrote his own music to Annensky’s words. His performance can also be found on the website.