Mikhail Zaitsev, Sergey Belorusets
Home for Gwin
A fairy tale about a very rare bird with an incredibly complex character.
There are winter stories, for example, about Santa Claus and the New Year, there are summer stories, for example, about trips to the country, some people like autumn stories about going to the forest to pick mushrooms or about the first of September, but we are going to tell you a spring story about a very rare bird.
Our story happened in April, when the sun was already warming, but there was still snow in some places. It started in an ordinary city apartment, in a very ordinary kitchen.
Friday evening was approaching. Preschooler Marusya was sitting at the kitchen table, and her mother Vera Mikhailovna was musically rattling pots at the stove and cheerfully humming a song of her own composition:
Vera Mikhailovna worked as a poetess in a children's magazine, she composed poems, charades and rhymed riddles, but most of all Vera Mikhailovna loved to compose funny children's songs.
“Yes, a wonderful song,” the head of the family, Igor Igorevich, appeared in the kitchen with these polite words. He has just returned from service. Igor Igorevich was gloomy and thoughtful.
- Dad, have you washed your hands? – Marusya asked carefully.
“Of course,” Igor Igorevich answered obediently, sitting down at the table.
- Why are you so sad? – Vera Mikhailovna asked, stirring the porridge in the saucepan with a spoon.
“Office troubles,” the head of the family admitted reluctantly. – Our fellow botanists brought a gwin to our Biological Institute, which had strayed from the flock, got lost and did not manage to fly to the North in time.
-Who did they bring? – Vera Mikhailovna did not understand.
- I know! – Marusya was delighted. – Gwins are such rare birds, similar to penguins! They spend the winter with us, and in the spring they fly to the Arctic!
Marusya knew a lot about birds, animals and nature in general; she had long planned to become a biologist when she grew up like her dad. True, sometimes she wanted to become a poetess, like her mother...
“That’s right,” Igor Igorevich nodded in agreement. – Gwins are distant relatives of penguins. And their main difference from penguins is that they can fly.
– Are there such birds that fly to the North in the spring? – Vera Mikhailovna was surprised.
- They happen! - Marusya said and was about to list all such birds, however, except for the gwins, she could not remember anyone else.
“Heat is destructive for the gwins,” sighed Igor Igorevich. “I tried to place the foundling in the zoo, but bad luck - in the zoo, all the enclosures for the northern inhabitants are occupied by someone. Alas, there was simply no free space for gwyn.
“Then let your gwin live with us,” Vera Mikhailovna cordially suggested.
“Gwin vitally needs the Arctic cold,” Igor Igorevich recalled and clarified: “At least periodically, while sleeping.”
“He will sleep in our refrigerator,” Vera Mikhailovna smiled.
– Hurray, Gwin will live at our house! – Marusya clapped her hands with joy. - The real, real Gwin!
“Yes, it’s a nice idea,” Igor Igorevich thoughtfully scratched the back of his head. - But if we give our refrigerator to Gwin, where will we store the food?
“We’ll buy ourselves a second refrigerator, a new one,” Vera Mikhailovna instantly found it.
“I’ll be there now!” Marusya ran out from behind the table and rushed headlong out of the kitchen.
The parents first heard the door to the children's room slam, then Marusya ran back. The girl returned, not even a minute had passed. In her hands Marusya was holding a toy pig - a piggy bank given to her by her grandmother. The young plastic pig had a slot on the back for throwing coins in, as well as a screw-on thread on the thread for removing savings.
The preschooler unscrewed the pig's snout at one point, and all of Marusya's savings spilled out onto the kitchen table: two ten-ruble coins, one ruble and another piglet, no longer a pig's snout...
– Is this enough for a refrigerator? – the girl asked busily.
“Thank you, Marusenka,” Igor Igorevich thanked his daughter, gently grabbed the coins into his fist, after which he stood up and headed towards the exit.
- Where are you going? – Vera Mikhailovna called out to him.
“We should buy a second refrigerator,” Igor Igorevich responded as he walked.
- Wait, what about dinner? – Vera Mikhailovna shouted after him. – Who did I cook dinner for?
- Mother! – Marusya intervened. – The refrigerator is much more important than dinner!
- Then, come on, you, daughter, eat a double portion of porridge: for yourself and for dad. Was it in vain that I cooked so much porridge?
For Gwin's sake, Marusya would gladly gobble up a whole pan of porridge, and even more so two servings!
While mom was putting porridge into a deep plate, Marusya composed a short poem:
I'll eat the porridge with a spoon,
And clap your hands loudly!
Without a doubt, the girl inherited her mother’s talent for poetry.
But let's return to our fairy tale story.
Do you know how Friday evening differs from all other evenings? Because it is the longest evening of the week. Therefore, on Friday evening, Igor Igorevich, without much difficulty, managed to go to a household appliances store, where sensitive and attentive sales consultants helped him choose a wonderful new refrigerator.
The purchase was delivered the next day, Saturday morning. The movers carried the old refrigerator out of the kitchen into the hallway, and installed a wonderful new one in its place. Igor Igorevich checked how the refrigerators worked and went to the Biological Institute to take Gwin home.
As soon as dad left, Marusya looked out the window - it was cloudy, windy and cool outside. The day turned out to be clearly successful for the northern bird, almost like a winter one, unlike yesterday, when the bright sun was shining with all its might and the temperature was very positive.
Having seen Igor Igorevich off, Vera Mikhailovna got down to urgent business: she began to transfer food from the old refrigerator to the wonderful new one. Vera Mikhailovna had to not only manage to sort out the groceries, but also thoroughly wash the old refrigerator, remove all the shelves that had now become unnecessary, in short, prepare a place to live for Gwin.
Marusya helped her mother as best she could and at the same time interfered, distracting Vera Mikhailovna with conversations. To prevent her daughter from chatting incessantly, Vera Mikhailovna used a reliable and proven method: she began to tell Marusa her riddles.
Marusya solved the first riddle after thinking for only four minutes. It was a simple riddle:
Blazing with a red ball,
Above the ground - in a balloon
End of introductory fragment.
When I come across new poems by the poet Sergei Belorusets, I anticipate the joys of language: I know that I will definitely encounter a wonderful word game, with tricks, riddles and unexpected answers to them.
Sergei Belorusets is one of those children's (and adult!) poets whose soul is completely immersed in the sea of our language: he, like an explorer of the depths, can dive to the very bottom and find some ancient phrase, or catch a phrase still unknown to science, or find a real treasure trove of interesting rhymes and expressions.
For many of the techniques on which Belarusian’s poems are based, there are special scientific definitions: homophones, homonyms, palindromes; He has a lot of rhymed problems and poetic tricks. And this verbal balancing act is truly a circus art!
Sergei Belorusets came up with a special name for his poems - Laughter. And he explained: “I just really loved (and love) coming up with neologisms, from which sometimes laughter is born... However, my laughter can be born in completely different ways. Often completely unknown to their creator...”
The author of several books for children and numerous publications in newspapers and magazines, almanacs and collections, Sergei forces us again and again to understand the structure of language, its secret mechanism and learn to control this mechanism. It is not for nothing that S. Belorusets’ educational poems are included in school anthologies and alphabet books.
With all his love for word games, Sergei Markovich Belorusets is a serious man: secretary of the Moscow Writers' Union, winner of several literary awards, initiator, creator and chairman of the organizing committee of the Children's Literature Festival named after. Korney Chukovsky, President of the RADA Foundation for Supporting the Creativity of Multi-Genre Children's Authors...
But this very serious man knows how to write funny poetry:
Our neighbor
Ostroslov Michal Mikhalych -
Satirist, humorist,
Joker, joker.
We call him to his face
Smekhalych laughed,
And he doesn't smile.
At least cry...
The Belarusian laughs, and we laugh with him.
Dialogue at the desk
- You can't push me with your elbow! -
Artyom told his neighbor.
“And with an elbow,” she asked, “is it possible?”
- Push. But just be careful!..
Fish day
Let's hit the road
To the river?.. -
So Fishing Rod
I asked.
Behind me
It won't rust! -
Answered
Sinker…
No error
At work
visited
I'm at Uncle Borya's.
About her
Now I know everything
Without error:
It's called -
FISHING LATORY -
Because there -
Aquarium
And fish!..
Five for three...
Became action figures
Galina clay:
Three horses
Galina blinded!..
Pig nonsense...
In the middle of the village
The chick was talking nonsense.
- Where did you carry it?
- In the trough...
- What are you saying…
Dress
- I love this dress! -
Lyuba told Mila.
- You look cute in it! -
Mila answered her...
Big quiet...
Big quiet -
This little bear.
It won't happen forever
He roars like a bear,
After all, he was born
Not in the forest
Among the animals
And in the city center,
At the toy factory...
New tenant
I took the puppy home.
Was - nobody's. Now he is mine.
“My puppy,” I said.
“My puppy,” said Ilya...
My family
Mom loves
Tenderness
Veal.
Dad loves -
Slippers
Sheep...
I can
Swim
Like a dog.
And Polkan -
Be silent
Humanly!..
Cool lady...
Here,
Daddy,
Emilia
Petrovna
Kochubey.
…But as
Her
Surname -
I do not remember.
At least kill me!..
Not all the same!
Distinguished himself
Our Anton:
Posted by
"AVCHARKA"
He…
Though
Shepherd
Barks
“AB!”, -
Doesn't matter -
Anton
Not right!..
He is…
There is a doctor like this -
Neuropathologist.
And there is not a doctor -
NERVOMOTOLOGIST…
I'm at my parents -
He is:
I'm shaking my nerves
Mom and Dad...
Small, but daring!
Gave us a puppy
Country neighbor.
Dad gave the puppy a nickname:
Favorite.
That one already! -
Can swim like a dog!
And - more! - He
Speaks like a dog!..
Sergey Belorusets
One of the women is with a trash can
(Empty), another woman - with a scythe...
And the man is baptized (because there is thunder),
And - in between times - it’s raining (slanting) -
And it all fits into the stanza
(Despite the fact that the framework is all sorts of tight...),
And the blind cat sleeps on the closet, -
And sees discolored dreams...
The quirks of the equipment here
In light of the years that have passed.
The bathhouse is located on the site
(There is still no dacha...)
Manki and Vanka.
Yes, drinking.
Yes, Tajik
Yes fast food...
……………………………….
Every winter in this bathhouse
Vole mice live...
We said goodbye to the light
This summer -
As always:
The hurricane passed - and then
There were no trains...
Three hours, three o'clock. Perhaps longer
(In the middle of an empty day...)
Nothing else more -
No about my life
In terms of events
(Unless they turned on the light...)
Nobody kills me
(From the living) -
There is no...
Day after day - one of the shortcomings -
You pull on a twisted thread.
After refreshments
I want to drink even more...
What can we say about everyday care?
In the list of achievements and losses -
This city was yours forever.
Until the end of time - no one's now...
There's a piano on the landing
It’s been standing for several years in a row.
And people - in shoals - walk around drunk,
And they smoke and talk about something, -
And they open the lid - in between times -
And the keys are broken for future use...
...And life goes on - sounding black and white,
Indicating a given lesson...
Gutta-percha speech.
Too much, over the edge...
Sparkling - when meeting:
Not a fakir, but a tram...
Free bedding.
The one with whom - somersault...
Too subtle - for the circus.
(However, this is not a circus...)
The mares galloped dashingly,
Crushing the stairs with their hooves...
Life from the periodic table
Elements -
Looks at you:
Here it is - your earthly school,
What steals years and courage...
...Towards the teachers' lounge - genderless -
The two-meter-tall head teacher wanders...
The rain taking me under the canopy
(And at the same time - walking like a wall).
Sound effects of heaven
Half and half with earthly fever.
Slightly alive silent prayers,
Recorded (glimpsily) in a notebook.
Endless puzzles of fate,
Which is (almost) impossible to collect...
1. Groundless and quiet misanthrope,
I am stingy with life’s escapades, -
You - with scissors -
Cut (all!) dill
(After washing it under the tap) -
Straight into the soup...
And the soup is boiling over low heat,
And the rain is like a wall
(Walking in the morning...)
And the street is rinsing in the window,
Squeezing half the sky out of the rain...
2. Opening the package with coho salmon -
Secateurs
(Why do we need a knife at the dacha...) -
You think a little noticeably
(About what -
It’s impossible to understand...)
But - you open something - and inside,
And - in the sky, open from birth...
I - helmet
(Hockey, number 33) -
You store it under an inverted trough...
Draw this summer to you
With the weather lazily indistinct,
With sick splashes of light
Into the canvas of the cotton sky.
Pull this torment to yourself -
Speaking words for the sake of meaning...
And - this invisible hand
(Which hung like a whip...)
The night is lazy and warm.
Having quenched the anxiety,
You were in the subway - at first - asleep -
(almost) all the way...
And now - rise again
(Go out for Lobnya...)
...On which shoulder is mine?
Was it more comfortable to sleep?..
May froze at the boundary. Far from the fire...
Closer, closer. Already
Very close, perhaps...
Not warm - hot. And bakes - intravenously...
Give me your shoulder. I'll kiss you. Instantly…
In the evening, not at all delirious, barely paunchy, -
I'll come to you wearing only one sock.
Take the other one back.
Still limping when walking, with one leg naked, -
I'll come to you wearing only one sock.
Back to pick up another...
Seeing no obstacles on the way,
I’ll come to you, risks, -
In one sock.
To leave at night without two socks...
Smile into your beard
Catching your breath from racing
(Single)
Around town,
What - grows - like a child...
And you don’t live in Butovo,
Not in Orekhov...
Where?
More often - only in Liliputov
(In Gulliverovo - less often...)
Blocky solid under asbestos vapor.
There is a suspension in the air...
Alkogolitsyno -
Country place.
You spend your time here.
Close to others
In the shadow of the harvest
Exactly where the map lay, -
Spending time
(Seeing him off
Every night - to the corner...)
Maybe myself -
What if you change overnight?
Will you become whiter than ink?..
As for the name -
So this is Stakanych -
I'm drunk -
It was composed...
Time whistled like a cannonball,
Having reached the calculated turn.
My homeland is a palindrome:
Either the mouth or the source.
RSFSR. Or how
Today your name is...
It's not even a mess, but... tavern.
This is the main way to live here.
As much as possible, dripping from the roofs
On the brain, to inspire that I am a corpse,
Show it every time shish,
You're torn navel...
The man is under arms again
Under construction.
To spite them madam,
I'll give my teeth for eye your.
I will give my soul only to God!..
Mikhail Zaitsev, Sergey Belorusets
Home for Gwin
A fairy tale about a very rare bird with an incredibly complex character.
There are winter stories, for example, about Santa Claus and the New Year, there are summer stories, for example, about trips to the country, some people like autumn stories about going to the forest to pick mushrooms or about the first of September, but we are going to tell you a spring story about a very rare bird.
Our story happened in April, when the sun was already warming, but there was still snow in some places. It started in an ordinary city apartment, in a very ordinary kitchen.
Friday evening was approaching. Preschooler Marusya was sitting at the kitchen table, and her mother Vera Mikhailovna was musically rattling pots at the stove and cheerfully humming a song of her own composition:
Vera Mikhailovna worked as a poetess in a children's magazine, she composed poems, charades and rhymed riddles, but most of all Vera Mikhailovna loved to compose funny children's songs.
“Yes, a wonderful song,” the head of the family, Igor Igorevich, appeared in the kitchen with these polite words. He has just returned from service. Igor Igorevich was gloomy and thoughtful.
- Dad, have you washed your hands? – Marusya asked carefully.
“Of course,” Igor Igorevich answered obediently, sitting down at the table.
- Why are you so sad? – Vera Mikhailovna asked, stirring the porridge in the saucepan with a spoon.
“Office troubles,” the head of the family admitted reluctantly. – Our fellow botanists brought a gwin to our Biological Institute, which had strayed from the flock, got lost and did not manage to fly to the North in time.
-Who did they bring? – Vera Mikhailovna did not understand.
- I know! – Marusya was delighted. – Gwins are such rare birds, similar to penguins! They spend the winter with us, and in the spring they fly to the Arctic!
Marusya knew a lot about birds, animals and nature in general; she had long planned to become a biologist when she grew up like her dad. True, sometimes she wanted to become a poetess, like her mother...
“That’s right,” Igor Igorevich nodded in agreement. – Gwins are distant relatives of penguins. And their main difference from penguins is that they can fly.
– Are there such birds that fly to the North in the spring? – Vera Mikhailovna was surprised.
- They happen! - Marusya said and was about to list all such birds, however, except for the gwins, she could not remember anyone else.
“Heat is destructive for the gwins,” sighed Igor Igorevich. “I tried to place the foundling in the zoo, but bad luck - in the zoo, all the enclosures for the northern inhabitants are occupied by someone. Alas, there was simply no free space for gwyn.
“Then let your gwin live with us,” Vera Mikhailovna cordially suggested.
“Gwin vitally needs the Arctic cold,” Igor Igorevich recalled and clarified: “At least periodically, while sleeping.”
“He will sleep in our refrigerator,” Vera Mikhailovna smiled.
– Hurray, Gwin will live at our house! – Marusya clapped her hands with joy. - The real, real Gwin!
“Yes, it’s a nice idea,” Igor Igorevich thoughtfully scratched the back of his head. - But if we give our refrigerator to Gwin, where will we store the food?
“We’ll buy ourselves a second refrigerator, a new one,” Vera Mikhailovna instantly found it.
“I’ll be there now!” Marusya ran out from behind the table and rushed headlong out of the kitchen.
The parents first heard the door to the children's room slam, then Marusya ran back. The girl returned, not even a minute had passed. In her hands Marusya was holding a toy pig - a piggy bank given to her by her grandmother. The young plastic pig had a slot on the back for throwing coins in, as well as a screw-on thread on the thread for removing savings.
The preschooler unscrewed the pig's snout at one point, and all of Marusya's savings spilled out onto the kitchen table: two ten-ruble coins, one ruble and another piglet, no longer a pig's snout...
– Is this enough for a refrigerator? – the girl asked busily.
“Thank you, Marusenka,” Igor Igorevich thanked his daughter, gently grabbed the coins into his fist, after which he stood up and headed towards the exit.
- Where are you going? – Vera Mikhailovna called out to him.
“We should buy a second refrigerator,” Igor Igorevich responded as he walked.
- Wait, what about dinner? – Vera Mikhailovna shouted after him. – Who did I cook dinner for?
- Mother! – Marusya intervened. – The refrigerator is much more important than dinner!
- Then, come on, you, daughter, eat a double portion of porridge: for yourself and for dad. Was it in vain that I cooked so much porridge?
For Gwin's sake, Marusya would gladly gobble up a whole pan of porridge, and even more so two servings!
While mom was putting porridge into a deep plate, Marusya composed a short poem:
I'll eat the porridge with a spoon,
And clap your hands loudly!
Without a doubt, the girl inherited her mother’s talent for poetry.
But let's return to our fairy tale story.
Do you know how Friday evening differs from all other evenings? Because it is the longest evening of the week. Therefore, on Friday evening, Igor Igorevich, without much difficulty, managed to go to a household appliances store, where sensitive and attentive sales consultants helped him choose a wonderful new refrigerator.
The purchase was delivered the next day, Saturday morning. The movers carried the old refrigerator out of the kitchen into the hallway, and installed a wonderful new one in its place. Igor Igorevich checked how the refrigerators worked and went to the Biological Institute to take Gwin home.
As soon as dad left, Marusya looked out the window - it was cloudy, windy and cool outside. The day turned out to be clearly successful for the northern bird, almost like a winter one, unlike yesterday, when the bright sun was shining with all its might and the temperature was very positive.
Having seen Igor Igorevich off, Vera Mikhailovna got down to urgent business: she began to transfer food from the old refrigerator to the wonderful new one. Vera Mikhailovna had to not only manage to sort out the groceries, but also thoroughly wash the old refrigerator, remove all the shelves that had now become unnecessary, in short, prepare a place to live for Gwin.
Marusya helped her mother as best she could and at the same time interfered, distracting Vera Mikhailovna with conversations. To prevent her daughter from chatting incessantly, Vera Mikhailovna used a reliable and proven method: she began to tell Marusa her riddles.
Marusya solved the first riddle after thinking for only four minutes. It was a simple riddle:
Blazing with a red ball,
Above the ground - in a balloon
End of introductory fragment.
Text provided by LitRes LLC.
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Belorusets S. Hairdressers of the grass: poems and laughs / Sergey Belorusets; artist Ivan Alexandrov; [preface P. Kryuchkova; afterword Yu. Gerchuk]. - Moscow: Samokat, 2011. - 79 p. : ill.
The book of poems “Barbers of the Grass” was a success primarily as an original artistic solution. Artist Ivan Aleksandrov bases his illustrations on alphabetic symbols and playing with text. To do this, he turns to the experience of the constructivists of the early 20th century, using their aesthetics of laconic colors and shapes, as well as thoughtful organization of space. As a result, the drawings come out childishly cheerful with their unusual play and adultly valuable with their talentedly reinterpreted tradition.
Unfortunately, masterly design is attached to rather specific texts. The poems of Sergei Belorusets are mostly heavy, strange due to the lack of vividness of thought in them, uncomfortable due to the ugliness of the sound.
"Barbers of the Grass" is a book about letters. About what they are and how you can or cannot handle them. Since the book was created by two people - a poet and an artist - there are two views: on the letter as a constructive element of the text and on the letter as a graphic object.
In general, there are also two results - completely different. 
For Sergei Belorusets, letters are components of words that can be moved from their usual places. And sounds are random combinations that can be heard and interpreted in your own way. Such an understanding of the language, of course, encourages playing with it. However, as it turns out, the game is too free and frivolous.
The fact that by playing with letters you can create new consonances, words and meanings is a rather important message for a child. But the poems in “Hairdressers...” rather make it clear that this should not always be done. They illustrate the opposite: the plasticity and integrity of language are not accidental. Simply picking your tongue in search of strained coincidences or clumsy absurdities is a much less meaningful activity than, for example, putting into words a truly living observation that already exists. And this is something Belarusian’s poems usually don’t do.
In order not to be unfounded, we will give a specific example. Poem about newt:
The poem ends at this ellipsis. There are only two statements in it: one is an obvious untruth, the other is completely uninteresting, since how much Sergei Belorusets does not know about newt, adds nothing to either the mind or the heart. But the newt is an amazing (and, at the same time, light) creature, about which it would be worth learning and telling more.
According to a similar principle of non-reporting ( “After all, we (and you?) / Haven’t / Seen the fireman yet... Alas...”) or refusal ( “Kat! / Go crazy / Don’t go crazy. / Wanted - / Wanted...") many poems are built in the book. And this is a sign of their powerlessness: there is a game, there is a rhyme, but the events - and, therefore, the poems - are not. As the author himself says in one of his texts (about carpentry tools): “Tolik didn’t take them in his hands, / He just played with words. / What came out is unknown: a chisel and a hammer!..”.
That's it.
Just as, by breaking logical connections, the Belarusian cannot create a new meaning, he, trying to work with consonances, does not feel his own phonetics at all. “Dust gunners”, “screamers”, “doormen” emerge from his poems as an army of clicking, distorted monsters, with whom, it would seem, you need to play, but for some reason you don’t want to... They pinch and get stuck in your mouth, when you try to pronounce - which ones The word “fish laboratory” alone is worth the effort!
It’s scary to imagine that they would all suddenly materialize if the artist Ivan Alexandrov had not neutralized them in time.
He picks up the word game and makes letters and concepts the basis of his illustrations. The elements from which images are created are syntactic marks, straight lines and printed symbols. The characters in the poems are made up of their own names. All the details of the drawings are font icons: brackets for the image of ripples on the water, commas for crocodile claws, the letter “O” for an open mouth, small scattered letters for swirling dust.
Using such strict means, Ivan Alexandrov creates children's illustrations easily and inventively. He can put the letter “U” instead of a face, and, nevertheless, both a smile and a good-natured expression will be visible on it. At the same time, Ivan Alexandrov is not limited to the task of “drawing with letters.” In his design, he comes up with many more exciting moves.
For example, clearly referring to the constructivists (in particular, to El Lissitzky, as noted by Elena Gerchuk in informative article about the design of “Barbers”), he confirms his “quotation” with similar work with color. The book begins with typical “proletarian” red in combination with black (see again illustrations for “For the Voice” Lissitzky), but gradually, while maintaining the combination of one simple color with black, he also turns to others, more neutral in meaning: green, blue, yellow. Thus, the book produces color sections that, slightly intersecting and flirting, replace each other and return to constructivist red.
The artist has a lot of other ideas: unique fonts, poster pages, a cut-out advertisement page, a mirror page, a photograph of a beetle (to confirm that he saw a fireman)…
All this not only corresponds to the stated game with letters, but also complements it. The design of the book turns into an interesting study of how a text can be subordinated to a great artistic task, how it can become one of the means of its implementation. This is exactly what Sergei Belorusets fails to achieve in “Barbers...”, from whom the overplayed letters deprive him of the opportunity to make a more interesting and necessary statement.
Olga Vinogradova
A note in the margins of the review
Poetry is not always obvious...
No not like this. Doesn't always happen meeting poet and reader. Perhaps this is how one could start, and then explain for a long time and tediously that Sergei Belorusets is a unique poet, and his indomitable games with words and with words clearly reveal this originality of his.
But is it necessary? You just need to hear the poet: to join in his poetic games in order not only to understand their rules, but, having mastered them, to have fun.
This is, in fact, what the artist Ivan Alexandrov did. His illustrations, his graphic “constructor” coincided so much with the verbal “constructor” of Sergei Belorusets that their common book game was almost perfectly embodied. But for some reason literally everyone praises the artist, but they make claims against the poet, forgetting that it was he who started the game; It was his poetic lines that captivated the artist, his ideas opened up opportunities for dizzying typeface fantasies and other original experiments of Ivan Alexandrov.
And if a talented artist understood and appreciated the poet, then perhaps we should not rush into such categorical assessments...
In any case, it’s probably worth listening to the opinion of Sergei Belorusets himself:
